I am nomad. Hear me roar.


Saturday, 26 March 2011

Blowing up moons, blowing chunks, and the Blowhole

My first full day in Australia, I woke, the Turtlepack overflowing at my feet, on a mattress on a trundle, camped in what used to be my brother's room. I washed, dressed, and packed the Mini-turtle, all ready and raring for my friend's hen's weekend.

Milf picked me up, with a car full of daughters, I had the intention of going over to her place early to help her set up for the pre-party drinks.

She was, of course, perfectly organised without my assistance. She always is. She is just a bit wonderful like that. Regardless we spent a sunny afternoon, chatting continuously, barely pausing for breath, in the way that only old friends can.

I did manage to aid a little by, by blowing up 'moons' as the Milf's eldest could not be dissuaded from calling them, and seeing that we had the giant pastel opalescent type of balloons, I could see her point. Big floaty moons, in peach and quartz, lavender and coral, water green and baby blue.

Shortly afterwards, the ladies began to arrive. A few of which I am happy to say acknowledged my presence with shrieks of surprise.

Mission accomplished. No one suspected, and I did get more than a bit of enjoyment out of my little ruse.

We began the festivities with a cocktail, and then all piled into two cars. We were on our way.

For 10 minutes at least, because at that point, I was forced to ask Milf to pull over.

Unable to lean over far enough, quick enough, I succeeded in puking all over my feet, my poor rainbow thongs bearing the brunt of the rainbow yawn.

At least I missed the car.

Though I maintain that my digestive pyrotechnics were due to exhaustion, dehydration, and a lack of acclimatisation, it was a bachelorette weekend, someone had to do it.

Having completed the very necessary business of washing my feet, we were on our way.


Kiama Blowhole, for a hen's weekend, let the lewd jokes begin.

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